


the god of my childhood was never once gentle

by roadkill_punk



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Minor Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, WIP, i guess?, minor gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 17:45:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14001291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadkill_punk/pseuds/roadkill_punk
Summary: a view of squee a decade after his involvement with crazy neighbor man, more commonly known as nny





	the god of my childhood was never once gentle

_My heart is beating so hard I can hear it. There’s nowhere to hide. Blood spattered on the brick walls. Bodies stuffed in trash cans. The alleyway dancing with firelight. The acrid smell of fear and old pee. Somewhere, someone is laughing. Not a nice laugh. A laugh that means someone’s gonna die. Dead end. A shadow looming. Can’t run. My body is so little and clumsy. Blood soaking through my shoes. I just stepped on something squishy-- I think it’s brain matter. He’s coming. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. I can hear his footsteps. He’s rounding the corner. He’s--_

Squee spent several seconds thrashing and disoriented, too caught up in the panic to notice that the bloody alleyway was replaced by his own room. Both locations were familiar to him and he couldn’t honestly say that he preferred the latter, but it certainly elicited less adrenaline. Waking life was more of a slow, gradual decay than sudden dismemberment. No point to fight-or-flight when there’s nothing to run from.

He sat up in bed, still hazy with sleep, and took stock of the moment. Skin clammy and slick with sweat. Sheets twisted around his gangly legs. House quiet-- mother probably passed out and drooling on the couch, father out doing whatever it was he did when he was pretending his family didn’t exist. Squee remembered the days when he still sought reassurance from his parents after a night terror. Thankfully those were behind him now.

Instead, he turned to more reliable comforts. He leaned over and fished his old, worn teddy bear out from under the bed, and briefly hugged it to his chest. Shmee the bear was after all these years still his best friend and confidante. For the most part it had been banished to the land of the dust bunnies (sorry, Shmee, but a seventeen year old boy dragging around a stuffed animal is even more of a torment target than a greasy, anxious seventeen year old boy with no friends), but it was always allowed on the bed in the privacy of night. After a few moments of Bear Time, he dropped the toy and turned to his other reliable friend, Mr. Bong, waiting patiently on the nightstand.

It was almost dawn-- he could tell by the pink tinge to the night sky outside his window-- which meant that he would be rolling into school stoned, but he learned long ago that no one gave a rat’s ass. If you're arbitrarily categorized as a Bad Kid, as Squee had been since kindergarten, it didn't matter if you pulled straight A's or dropped out, you'd be punished either way. Smoking a few bowls before class actually helped get him through the day. A pleasant buffer between him and all the shit. Like watching the world from behind a screen.

He blew out a long stream of smoke and looked sideways at his furry companion. “It’s going to be a shit day, Shmee.”

 

* * *

 

 

Squee accepted the last scoop of unidentifiable gray sludge from the lunch lady with the hairy mole and exited the lunch line, heading for his usual place. He almost always sat in the back corner of the cafeteria, at a table populated by other teens just as freakish as he was. Ready-made victims tended to huddle together, like sheep or fish, hoping that their neighbor would be eaten instead of them. Birds of a feather flock together, and Squee was a brace-faced zitty pariah of a bird.

His mind buzzed with the mosquito-like whine of his precalc teacher’s nagging voice and the revolting odor of whatever unspeakable horror was soaking into his lunch tray, and he didn’t notice a sniggering jock stick out a leg until he was already tripping. There was a long moment of airborne terror, and then he was on the ground, Monday Mystery Meat splattered everywhere. His hands throbbed where they had connected with the floor, and his head throbbed with sudden rage.

_Give that filthy shithead football player what’s coming to him. Scoop out his eyeballs with a plastic spork. How satisfying they’d feel turning to shapeless jelly in my fist. The image of him screaming with blood running down his face is fucking hilarious. Say bye-bye to your athletic scholarship, asshole. Can’t score a touchdown without eyes. Ha!_

Squee got up slowly, avoiding the football player’s eyes-- no pun intended-- and trudged to the bathroom. Lard dripped off his clothing and onto the tiled floor. He waiting until the door was closed behind him and he was sure he was alone before he let his face crumple up with silent rage and frustration and despair. His reflection in the mirror looked to him like a pathetic child throwing a temper tantrum, and he resisted the urge to shatter it.

At times like these he wasn’t sure if he wished that Johnny had killed him like everyone else, or if he wished that he was Johnny. To die and to kill were equally strong instincts, so loud in his mind that they drowned out everything else. He wasn't sure how long he could keep doing this.


End file.
